


Yurio

by jessng



Series: Cat! Yurio AU [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Otabek is still a figure skater, cat!Yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10580781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessng/pseuds/jessng
Summary: He decided to name the kitten Yurio.It wasn’t based on anything, and wasn’t even Kazakh. Just a random name he had come up with looking at the small creature. Its four legs clutched tightly to his arm, peaceful purrs reverberated through the room, along with his breathing.Tentatively, he placed his hand on the kitten’s forehead and pet it. It let out a satisfied hum, and finally stretched out.He looks like a Yurio.Otabek had thought, and called it so since then...AU in which Yurio is an actual cat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this comic.](http://awen-ng.tumblr.com/post/155025999825/a-little-story-about-otabeks-thought-on-a-grumpy) It's beautiful and cute and I love it.

The year Otabek Altin turned eighteen, he found two cats on the side of the road. 

A cat and a kitten, to be exact. 

At first glance, they looked like one, because all he could see from above the cardboard box was a ball of golden fur. The ball stretched out when he got down, maybe because the cat had heard the sounds from his motorbike. The kitten lay curled up under the cat, seemingly sleeping, undisturbed despite the horns of the passing trucks and cars. 

When Otabek reached his hand inside the box, the cat snarled and hissed and meowed, wrapping its paws around the sleeping kitten. 

He noticed that its meows were weak. Too weak. 

He picked the box up, taking care to hold it as gently as possible. He couldn’t afford to wake up the sleeping kitten. 

When he restarted his motorcycle, the cardboard box held in front of him, the cat was still hugging its kitten. Before it fell asleep, it looked at him. From its green eyes glinted something that resembled gratitude. 

He had thought the cat would wake up again.

* * *

 

The kitten opened its eyes three hours later, when he scooped it out of the cardboard box and onto the vet’s smooth, white bed. It was golden, like the cat, small, and weak. One of its eyes looked much duller than the other, which Otabek later on learnt was because that eye was blinded. It jumped down from his hands to the ground and began trotting around the tiny space of the office. Otabek didn’t understand meows, but he knew what the little creature was looking for. 

When the kitten saw no signs of the cat, the meows ceased. 

Five minutes and still nothing. Two soft paws nudged at Otabek’s feet. 

Those same paws pushed and shook the still cat on the bed two rooms away. Otabek never knew, until then, that meows could sound like cries, ragged, desperate, trying not to accept the truth. The kitten hissed when being touched, scratched when the cat was taken away, and bit when Otabek scooped it up again. The bite formed a scar that never healed. Otabek didn’t mind. 

Three days later, Otabek Altin signed on the final paper, and completed the adoption process.

It was the second time he saw gratitude in an animal’s eyes.

* * *

 

He decided to name the kitten Yurio. 

It wasn’t based on anything, and wasn’t even Kazakh. Just a random name he had come up with looking at the small creature. Its four legs clutched tightly to his arm, peaceful purrs reverberated through the room, along with his breathing. 

Tentatively, he placed his hand on the kitten’s forehead and pet it. It let out a satisfied hum, and finally stretched out. 

_He looks like a Yurio_. Otabek had thought, and called it so since then.

* * *

 

Yurio wasn’t a particularly touchy creature, and neither was he the friendliest cat in the world. Those were two of the things Otabek had learnt before he turned twenty-one. 

During the World Grand Prix, he had put his friends in charge of the cat. 

On the first day, they called him and said the cat would hiss and scratch when they tried to touch it. Otabek questioned why Yurio didn’t do that to him. 

On the second day, they told him the cat refused to eat fish. 

Otabek laughed and asked them to feed it the pirozhkis bought from a Russian restaurant downtown. “He’s a weird fella,” He added, and his friends wondered how he could foster such a complicated cat. 

On the third day, they called him, saying that once they turned the TV to his live performance, Yurio would just sit and silently watch, until Otabek’s face could no longer be seen. 

Laughing, Otabek told them, “Had Yurio been human, he would’ve made for a great figure skater.”

* * *

 

Otabek never knew how old Yurio really was. All he had was a rough estimation from the vet on the day he picked up that dusty cardboard box. He also considered that day Yurio’s birthday. 

By the year Otabek turned twenty-four, Yurio was six.

When it came to birthdays, Otabek didn’t normally celebrate. That was why it perplexed the neighbor who saw him carrying home a small cake, a wrapped box, and a suspicious bag, looking as though he was about to throw a surprise party for someone. 

Otabek sang _Happy Birthday_ for the first time in what felt like a million years. Yurio didn’t eat the cake, but was satisfied with the pirozhkis. Otabek noticed the small front paws holding out a pirozhki bun to him, as if offering. He took it, and Yurio looked contented.

The present wrapped inside of the box was a stuffed pig toy. Yurio didn’t seem to like it. He kept biting and pulling at the toy as if it was his worst enemy. Otabek only sighed and stood up to go for a shower, taking note to buy a different toy next time. 

When he came back, Yurio was asleep on the small cat bed just below the window, cuddling with the toy that he seemed to hate. Otabek smiled and snapped a photo of the moment.

* * *

 

Yurio liked snowflakes. 

He didn’t always climb up to windows, but when he did, it would always be to tap his paw at the little snowflakes that clung to the glass. 

There were never enough photos of him doing just that in Otabek’s phone.

Winter in Almaty wasn’t too harsh, though was still too cold to live without a heater. Otabek had one. When he turned it on, Yurio, no matter where he was, would slowly make his way toward the machine. If there was no one in front of the heat, he would just lay stretched out, taking every space there was. And if Otabek was sitting there, a little paw would tap at his socked foot, and Yurio would curl up in a ball on his legs. 

Oftentimes, there would be the smell of strong coffee in the air. Otabek’s breathing would be in sync with the tiny contented purrs.

Suddenly, the world didn’t seem to suck so much anymore.

* * *

 

But when Otabek was twenty-eight, a red-haired skater trampled on his heart and turned his world dark and gray.

Yurio didn’t know that. 

For a week, the golden cat tried to apologize for what he didn’t do. And for a week, he failed. His little feet trotted around the little apartment. His clear eye looked everywhere for something that would cheer his owner up. Nothing worked.

The pile of stuffed animals lying next to Otabek’s bed kept increasing in size. Whenever Otabek came home, he would lie on the bed, facing the wall, his back turned against the entire house. That year, all that filled the house were sighs. That year was the most silent he had ever been, like a bear during hibernation. That year, Yurio barely touched his toys, because they remained in the heap at Otabek’s bedside. 

That year, whenever Yurio jumped on the bed and nudged at Otabek, he would just turn away. 

Yurio just didn’t seem to give up.

* * *

 

It was about mid-June the year after when a murderer broke into their apartment. 

Otabek had heard rumors on the news and around the city, but in the dark, he wasn’t prepared enough to defend himself. 

The knife never reached him however. Instead, he heard panicked meows and painful grunts. The murderer was trying to get Yurio out of his face. 

The noises they made woke up the neighbors.

The police came ten minutes after that, when Otabek had managed to restrain the murderer. There was blood, but no one knew where it came from. Except for Otabek and the handcuffed man. 

When Yurio finally woke up, Otabek buried his face in the soft fur, careful not to touch the bandaged legs. Drops of warm liquid rolled out of the corners of his eyes and dampened Yurio’s stomach. Otabek knew he was crying. He just chose not to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked, “Yurio, I’m sorry.” 

He thought he felt a soft paw patting his head, as if assuring to him that it would be okay. That everything would be okay. As long as he was alive.

* * *

 

When Otabek turned thirty-two, he thought about retirement. 

It was also the year he started taking Yurio to the vet more often. 

“We’re afraid he can’t live any longer,” they said. Every time. 

He didn’t want to believe them, but Yurio seemed to understand.

* * *

 

Memories were one of the cruelest things in this world, because Otabek couldn’t help but think of how much Yurio had slowed down when he climbed the window to tap at the snowflakes. 

He couldn’t help but notice how much leftover pirozhkis he had, now that Yurio had eaten less and less of them. 

He couldn’t help but realize how big Yurio had grown compared to the first time they watched the New Year fireworks together. 

He couldn’t help but look back at the photos he took of Yurio since he was eighteen. Sighing. Wondering why and how time went by so quickly. 

Still, Otabek couldn’t stop the small smile that crept to his lips when he ran his hand through the smooth golden fur. Yurio was asleep on his legs, cuddled up with the stuffed pig toy that he seemed to hate. It was midnight and everything was quiet, save for the tiny, uneven purrs — the only signs left that there was still life in Yurio.

* * *

 

The year Otabek Altin turned thirty-three, he declared to the world that his last ever gold medal would be dedicated to Yurio. 

When he left for his final World Grand Prix, he held Yurio as if it was their last goodbye. He was fifteen minutes away from missing the plane, but it was worth it. 

After all, no one knew when would be their last goodbye.

* * *

 

It surprised everyone that this time, Otabek’s skate routines were accompanied by soft and mellow music, almost like lullabies.

It surprised them even more that when the gold medal was hung around his neck, Otabek jumped and cheered, excited, as if he was a child.

“Yurio, are you seeing this?” He yelled in Kazakh, “I won gold! It’s for you, Yurio!”

People were looking and he didn’t care. He never did. He would run from the rink back to Kazakhstan if he could, because he would rather die than wait for another second. 

That year, Otabek Altin didn’t join the banquet, because by the time it happened, he had kicked down the door to his apartment, impatient, ready to show Yurio the gold medal he had won for him. 

Yurio stood up from his previous curled-up position. Otabek sat down, scooped him up and held him, face buried into his fur.

“I’m home.” He whispered. Yurio’s soft meow was like a reply. Was always like one. 

Hurriedly, Otabek dug inside his backpack and pulled out the gold medal. It lay in his hand, cool and heavy. He lowered it to Yurio’s eye level. The paw touched it, stroking the flat surface gently. Yurio looked at him. He nodded.

“Yes, for you.”

* * *

 

The night after Otabek Altin won his last gold medal, he sat on his bed, back against the wall, just a few inches away from the window. He held Yurio against his chest, hand running along the golden fur. 

He smiled, and then choked.

Yurio was asleep, again, hugging his first present, the worn-out pig toy. 

It was midnight and everything was quiet. 

Save for a whisper of “Thank you.”


End file.
